Okay. Here is a painting of a horse I purchased yesterday at a thrift store. Some little kid probably spent days constructing it and, upon completion, gifted it to someone who politely smiled and accepted it…only to reject and discard it. I first saw it this past Monday. Because of the garish choice of colors, it immediately drew my attention.
Why so much pink? This was really bad art…art so inferior that even my cheap single-wide trailer would cringe in its presence. I left empty-handed…wise financial decision…one less piece of junk for my kids to dispose of when I fold over into the mist.
The picture, however, had a different plan. It wormed its way into my psyche for days. Some inner voice was driving me to go back to the store. Rescue Pinky the Horse from Dumpster Death!
Friday morning: I rushed back to the store, fingers-crossed, gnawing my teeth with worry…was the painting still there after all this time?
Slow down. It’s not worth a ticket!
I arrived, went into the store, sauntered over to the “art” display, and jumped with joy! There it was! Lonesome…Forlorn…Unwanted…Unappreciated…DOOMED!
I imagined that the horse twinged in delight and winked its little button eye when it saw me gazing at it once again.
Pinky had summoned me. She knew.
The adoption was completed at the sales counter. Pinky was on her way to a new home.
I think it was the button in the eye that compelled me. Or, perhaps it was the gold glitter thrown haphazardly about by some enthusiastic child.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was a broken dream that I rescued. I felt my trailer moan its approval when I put the painting on the wall.
Would you have paid two dollars and ninety-nine cents for Pinky the Horse?